CHAPTER XXI.

IN THE SOUTH OF FRANCE.

Having worked diligently through nearly two years on the second volume

of "The History of Woman Suffrage," I looked forward with pleasure to a

rest, in the Old World, beyond the reach and sound of my beloved Susan

and the woman suffrage movement. On May 27, 1892, I sailed with my

daughter Harriot on the _Château Léoville_ for Bordeaux. The many

friends who came to see us off brought fruits and flowers, boxes of

candied ginger to ward off seasickness, letters of introduction, and

light literature for the voyage. We had all the daily and weekly papers,

secular and religious, the new monthly magazines, and several novels. We

thought we would do an immense amount of reading, but we did very

little. Eating, sleeping, walking on deck, and watching the

ever-changing ocean are about all that most people care to do. The sail

down the harbor that bright, warm evening was beautiful, and, we

lingered on deck in the moonlight until a late hour.

I slept but little, that night, as two cats kept running in and out of

my stateroom, and my berth was so narrow that I could only lie in one

position--as straight as if already in my coffin. Under such

circumstances I spent the night, thinking over everything that was

painful in my whole life, and imagining all the different calamities

that might befall my family in my absence. It was a night of severe

introspection and intense dissatisfaction. I was glad when the morning

dawned and I could go on deck. During the day my couch was widened one

foot, and, at night, the cats relegated to other quarters.

We had a smooth, pleasant, uneventful voyage, until the last night,

when, on nearing the French coast, the weather became dark and stormy.

The next morning our good steamer pushed slowly and carefully up the

broad, muddy Gironde and landed us on the bustling quays of Bordeaux,

where my son Theodore stood waiting to receive us. As we turned to say

farewell to our sturdy ship--gazing up at its black iron sides

besprinkled with salty foam--a feeling of deep thankfulness took

possession of us, for she had been faithful to her trust, and had borne

us safely from the New World to the Old, over thousands of miles of

treacherous sea.

We spent a day in driving about Bordeaux, enjoying the mere fact of

restoration to _terra firma_ after twelve days' imprisonment on the

ocean. Maritime cities are much the same all the world over. The forests

of masts, the heavily laden drays, the lounging sailors, the rough

'longshoremen, and the dirty quays, are no more characteristic of

Bordeaux than New York, London, and Liverpool. But Bordeaux was

interesting as the birthplace of Montesquieu and as the capital of

ancient Guienne and Gascony.

But I must not forget to mention an accident that happened on landing at

Bordeaux. We had innumerable pieces of baggage, a baby carriage, rocking

chair, a box of "The History of Woman Suffrage" for foreign libraries,

besides the usual number of trunks and satchels, and one hamper, in

which were many things we were undecided whether to take or leave. Into

this, a loaded pistol had been carelessly thrown. The hamper being

handled with an emphatic jerk by some jovial French sailor, the pistol

exploded, shooting the bearer through the shoulder. He fell bleeding on

the quay. The dynamite scare being just at its height, the general

consternation was indescribable. Every Frenchman, with vehement

gestures, was chattering to his utmost capacity, but keeping at a

respectful distance from the hamper. No one knew what had caused the

trouble; but Theodore was bound to make an investigation. He proceeded

to untie the ropes and examine the contents, and there he found the

pistol, from which, pointing upward, he fired two other bullets. "Alas!"

said Hattie, "I put that pistol there, never dreaming it was loaded."

The wounded man was taken to the hospital. His injuries were very

slight, but the incident cost us two thousand francs and no end of

annoyance. I was thankful that by some chance the pistol had not gone

off in the hold of the vessel and set the ship on fire, and possibly

sacrificed three hundred lives through one girl's carelessness. Verily

we cannot be too careful in the use of firearms.

Bordeaux is a queer old town, with its innumerable soldiers and priests

perambulating in all directions. The priests, in long black gowns and

large black hats, have a solemn aspect; but the soldiers, walking lazily

along, or guarding buildings that seem in no danger from any living

thing, are useless and ridiculous. The heavy carts and harness move the

unaccustomed observer to constant pity for the horses. Besides

everything that is necessary for locomotion, they have an endless number

of ornaments, rising two or three feet above the horses' heads--horns,

bells, feathers, and tassels. One of their carts would weigh as much as

three of ours, and all their carriages are equally heavy.

It was a bright, cool day on which we took the train for Toulouse, and

we enjoyed the delightful run through the very heart of old Gascony and

Languedoc. It was evident that we were in the South, where the sun is

strong, for, although summer had scarcely begun, the country already

wore a brown hue. But the narrow strips of growing grain, the acres of

grape vines, looking like young currant bushes, and the fig trees

scattered here and there, looked odd to the eye of a native of New York.

We passed many historical spots during that afternoon journey up the

valley of the Garonne. At Portets are the ruins of the Château of

Langoiran, built before America was discovered, and, a few miles farther

on, we came to the region of the famous wines of Sauterne and

Château-Yquem. Saint Macaire is a very ancient Gallo-Roman town, where

they show one churches, walls, and houses built fifteen centuries ago.

One of the largest towns has a history typical of this part of France,

where wars of religion and conquest were once the order of the day. It

was taken and retaken by the Goths, Huns, Burgundians, and Saracens,

nobody knows how many times, and belonged, successively, to the kings of

France, to the dukes of Aquitaine, to the kings of England, and to the

counts of Toulouse. I sometimes wonder whether the inhabitants of our

American towns, whose growth and development have been free and

untrammeled as that of a favorite child, appreciate the blessings that

have been theirs. How true the lines of Goethe: "America, thou art much

happier than our old continent; thou hast no castles in ruins, no

fortresses; no useless remembrances, no vain enemies will interrupt the

inward workings of thy life!"

We passed through Moissac, with its celebrated organ, a gift of Mazarin;

through Castle Sarrazin, founded by the Saracens in the eighth century;

through Montauban, that stronghold of the early Protestants, which

suffered martyrdom for its religious faith; through Grisolles, built on

a Roman highway, and, at last, in the dusk of the evening, we reached

"the Capital of the South," that city of learning--curious, interesting

old Toulouse.

Laura Curtis Bullard, in her sketch of me in "Our Famous Women," says:

"In 1882, Mrs. Stanton went to France, on a visit to her son Theodore,

and spent three months at the convent of La Sagesse, in the city of

Toulouse." This is quite true; but I have sometimes tried to guess what

her readers thought I was doing for three months in a convent. Weary of

the trials and tribulations of this world, had I gone there to prepare

in solitude for the next? Had I taken the veil in my old age? Or, like

high-church Anglicans and Roman Catholics, had I made this my retreat?

Not at all. My daughter wished to study French advantageously, my son

lived in the mountains hard by, and the garden of La Sagesse, with its

big trees, clean gravel paths, and cool shade, was the most delightful

spot.

In this religious retreat I met, from time to time, some of the most

radical and liberal-minded residents of the South. Toulouse is one of

the most important university centers of France, and bears with credit

the proud title of "the learned city." With two distinguished members

of the faculty, the late Dr. Nicholas Joly and Professor Moliner of the

law school, I often had most interesting discussions on all the great

questions of the hour. That three heretics--I should say, six, for my

daughter, son, and his wife often joined the circle--could thus sit in

perfect security, and debate, in the most unorthodox fashion, in these

holy precincts, all the reforms, social, political, and religious, which

the United States and France need in order to be in harmony with the

spirit of the age, was a striking proof of the progress the world has

made in freedom of speech. The time was when such acts would have cost

us our lives, even if we had been caught expressing our heresies in the

seclusion of our own homes. But here, under the oaks of a Catholic

convent, with the gray-robed sisters all around us, we could point out

the fallacies of Romanism itself, without fear or trembling. Glorious

Nineteenth Century, what conquests are thine!

I shall say nothing of the picturesque streets of antique Toulouse;

nothing of the priests, who swarm like children in an English town;

nothing of the beautifully carved stone façades of the ancient mansions,

once inhabited by the nobility of Languedoc, but now given up to trade

and commerce; nothing of the lofty brick cathedrals, whose exteriors

remind one of London and whose interiors transfer you to "the gorgeous

East"; nothing of the Capitol, with its gallery rich in busts of the

celebrated sons of the South; nothing of the museum, the public garden,

and the broad river winding through all. I must leave all these

interesting features of Toulouse and hasten up into the Black

Mountains, a few miles away, where I saw the country life of modern

Languedoc.

At Jacournassy, the country seat of Mme. Berry, whose daughter my son

Theodore married, I spent a month full of surprises. How everything

differed from America, and even from the plain below! The peasants, many

of them at least, can neither speak French nor understand it. Their

language is a patois, resembling both Spanish and Italian, and they

cling to it with astonishing pertinacity. Their agricultural implements

are not less quaint than their speech. The plow is a long beam with a

most primitive share in the middle, a cow at one end, and a boy at the

other. The grain is cut with a sickle and threshed with a flail on the

barn floor, as in Scripture times. Manure is scattered over the fields

with the hands. There was a certain pleasure in studying these old-time

ways. I caught glimpses of the anti-revolutionary epoch, when the king

ruled the state and the nobles held the lands. Here again I saw, as

never before, what vast strides the world has made within one century.

But, indoors, one returns to modern times. The table, beds, rooms of the

château were much the same as those of Toulouse and New York city. The

cooking is not like ours, however, unless Delmonico's skill be supposed

to have extended to all the homes in Manhattan Island, which is,

unfortunately, not the case. What an admirable product of French genius

is the art of cooking! Of incalculable value have been the culinary

teachings of Vatel and his followers.

One of the sources of amusement, during my sojourn at Jacournassy, was

of a literary nature. My son Theodore was then busy collecting the

materials for his book entitled "The Woman Question in Europe," and

every post brought in manuscripts and letters from all parts of the

continent, written in almost every tongue known to Babel. So just what I

came abroad to avoid, I found on the very threshold where I came to

rest. We had good linguists at the château, and every document finally

came forth in English dress, which, however, often needed much altering

and polishing. This was my part of the work. So, away off in the heart

of France, high up in the Black Mountains, surrounded with

French-speaking relatives and patois-speaking peasants, I found myself

once more putting bad English into the best I could command, just as I

had so often done in America, when editor of _The Revolution_, or when

arranging manuscript for "The History of Woman Suffrage." But it was

labor in the cause of my sex; it was aiding in the creation of "The

Woman Question in Europe," and so my pen did not grow slack nor my hand

weary.

The scenery in the Black Mountains is very grand, and reminds one of the

lofty ranges of mountains around the Yosemite Valley in California. In

the distance are the snow-capped Pyrenees, producing a solemn beauty, a

profound solitude. We used to go every evening where we could see the

sun set and watch the changing shadows in the broad valley below.

Another great pleasure here was watching the gradual development of my

first grandchild, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, born at Paris, on the 3d of

May, 1882. She was a fine child; though only three months old her head

was covered with dark hair, and her large blue eyes looked out with

intense earnestness from beneath her well-shaped brow.

One night I had a terrible fright. I was the only person sleeping on

the ground floor of the château, and my room was at the extreme end of

the building, with the staircase on the other side. I had frequently

been cautioned not to leave my windows open, as someone might get in.

But, as I always slept with an open window, winter and summer, I thought

I would take the risk rather than endure a feeling of suffocation night

after night. The blinds were solid, and to close them was to exclude all

the air, so I left them open about a foot, braced by an iron hook. A

favorite resort for a pet donkey was under my window, where he had

uniformly slept in profound silence. But one glorious moonlight night,

probably to arouse me to enjoy with him the exquisite beauty of our

surroundings, he put his nose through this aperture and gave one of the

most prolonged, resounding brays I ever heard. Startled from a deep

sleep, I was so frightened that at first I could not move. My next

impulse was to rush out and arouse the family, but, seeing a dark head

in the window, I thought I would slam down the heavy sash and check the

intruder before starting. But just as I approached the window, another

agonizing bray announced the innocent character of my midnight visitor.

Stretching out of the window to frighten him away, a gentleman in the

room above me, for the same purpose, dashed down a pail of water, which

the donkey and I shared equally. He ran off at a double-quick pace,

while I made a hasty retreat.

On August 20, I returned to Toulouse and our quiet convent. The sisters

gave me a most affectionate welcome and I had many pleasant chats,

sitting in the gardens, with the priests and professors. Several times

my daughter and I attended High Mass in the cathedral, built in the

eleventh century. Being entirely new to us it was a most entertaining

spectacular performance. With our American ideas of religious devotion,

it seemed to us that the people, as well as the building, belonged to

the Dark Ages. About fifty priests, in mantles, gowns, and capes, some

black, some yellow,--with tinseled fringes and ornamentation,--with all

manner of gestures, genuflections, salutations, kneelings, and burning

of incense; with prayers, admonitions, and sacraments, filled the altar

with constant motion.

A tall man, dressed in red, wheeled in a large basket filled with bread,

which the priests, with cups of wine, passed up and down among those

kneeling at the altar. At least half a dozen times the places at the

altar were filled--chiefly with women. We counted the men,--only

seven,--and those were old and tremulous, with one foot in the grave.

The whole performance was hollow and mechanical. People walked in,

crossed themselves at the door with holy water, and, while kneeling and

saying their prayers, looked about examining the dress of each newcomer,

their lips moving throughout, satisfied in reeling off the allotted

number of prayers in a given time. The one redeeming feature in the

whole performance was the grand music. The deep-toned organ, whose

sounds reverberated through the lofty arches, was very impressive.

The convent consisted of three large buildings, each three stories high,

and a residence for the priests; also a chapel, where women, at their

devotions, might be seen at various hours from four o'clock in the

morning until evening. Inclosed within a high stone wall were beautiful

gardens with fountains and shrines, where images of departed saints, in

alcoves lighted with tapers were worshiped on certain days of the year.

Such were our environments, and our minds naturally often dwelt on the

nature and power of the religion that had built up and maintained for

centuries these peaceful resorts, where cultivated, scholarly men, and

women of fine sensibilities, could find rest from the struggles of the

outside world. The sisters, who managed this large establishment, seemed

happy in the midst of their severe and multifarious duties. Of the

undercurrent of their lives I could not judge, but on the surface all

seemed smooth and satisfactory. They evidently took great pleasure in

the society of each other. Every evening, from six to eight, they all

sat in the gardens in a circle together, sewing, knitting, and chatting,

with occasional merry bursts of laughter. Their existence is not, by

many degrees, as monotonous as that of most women in isolated

households--especially of the farmer's wife in her solitary home, miles

away from a village and a post office. They taught a school of fifty

orphan girls, who lived in the convent, and for whom they frequently had

entertainments. They also had a few boarders of the old aristocracy of

France, who hate the Republic and still cling to their belief in Popes

and Kings. For the purpose of perfecting herself in the language, my

daughter embraced every opportunity to talk with all she met, and thus

learned the secrets of their inner life. As Sister Rose spoke English, I

gleaned from her what knowledge I could as to their views of time and

eternity. I found their faith had not made much progress through the

terrible upheavals of the French Revolution. Although the Jesuits have

been driven out of France, and the pictures of Saints, the Virgin Mary,

and Christ, have been banished from the walls of their schools and

colleges, the sincere Catholics are more devoted to their religion

because of these very persecutions.

Theodore, his wife, and baby, and Mr. Blatch, a young Englishman, came

to visit us. The sisters and school children manifested great delight in

the baby, and the former equal pleasure in Mr. Blatch's marked attention

to my daughter, as babies and courtships were unusual tableaux in a

convent. As my daughter was studying for a university degree in

mathematics, I went with her to the Lycée, a dreary apartment in a

gloomy old building with bare walls, bare floors, dilapidated desks and

benches, and an old rusty stove. Yet mid such surroundings, the

professor always appeared in full dress, making a stately bow to his

class. I had heard so much of the universities of France that I had

pictured to myself grand buildings, like those of our universities; but,

instead, I found that the lectures were given in isolated rooms, here,

there, and anywhere--uniformly dreary inside and outside.

The first day we called on Professor Depesyrons. After making all our

arrangements for books and lectures, he suddenly turned to my daughter,

and, pointing to the flounces on her dress, her jaunty hat, and some

flowers in a buttonhole, he smiled, and said: "All this, and yet you

love mathematics?" As we entered the court, on our way to the Lycée and

inquired for the professor's lecture room, the students in little groups

watched us closely. The one who escorted us asked several questions, and

discovered, by our accent, that we were foreigners, a sufficient excuse

for the novelty of our proceeding. The professor received us most

graciously, and ordered the janitor to bring us chairs, table, paper,

and pencils.

Then we chatted pleasantly until the hour arrived for his lecture. As I

had but little interest in the subject, and as the problems were

pronounced in a foreign tongue, I took my afternoon nap. There was no

danger of affronting the professor by such indifference to his

eloquence, as he faced the blackboard, filling it with signs and figures

as rapidly as possible; then expunging them to refill again and again,

without a break in his explanations; talking as fast as his hand moved.

Harriot struggled several days to follow him, but found it impossible,

so we gave up the chase after cubes and squares, and she devoted herself

wholly to the study of the language. These were days, for me, of perfect

rest and peace. Everything moved as if by magic, no hurry and bustle,

never a cross or impatient word spoken. As only one or two of the

sisters spoke English, I could read under the trees uninterruptedly for

hours. Emerson, Ruskin, and Carlyle were my chosen companions.

We made several pleasant acquaintances among some Irish families who

were trying to live on their reduced incomes in Toulouse. One of these

gave us a farewell ball. As several companies of the French army were

stationed there, we met a large number of officers at the ball. I had

always supposed the French were graceful dancers. I was a quiet "looker

on in Vienna," so I had an opportunity of comparing the skill of the

different nationalities. All admitted that none glided about so easily

and gracefully as the Americans. They seemed to move without the least

effort, while the English, the French, and the Germans labored in their

dancing, bobbing up and down, jumping and jerking, out of breath and red

in the face in five minutes. One great pleasure we had in Toulouse was

the music of the military band in the public gardens, where, for half a

cent, we could have a chair and enjoy pure air and sweet music for two

hours.

We gave a farewell dinner at the Tivollier Hotel to some of our friends.

With speeches and toasts we had a merry time. Professor Joly was the

life of the occasion. He had been a teacher in France for forty years

and had just retired on a pension. I presented to him "The History of

Woman Suffrage," and he wrote a most complimentary review of it in one

of the leading French journals. Every holiday must have its end. Other

duties called me to England. So, after a hasty good-by to Jacournassy

and La Sagesse, to the Black Mountains and Toulouse, to Languedoc and

the South, we took train one day in October, just as the first leaves

began to fall, and, in fourteen hours, were at Paris. I had not seen the

beautiful French capital since 1840. My sojourn within its enchanting

walls was short,--too short,--and I woke one morning to find myself,

after an absence of forty-two years, again on the shores of England, and

before my eyes were fairly open, grim old London welcomed me back. But

the many happy hours spent in "merry England" during the winter of

1882-83 have not effaced from my memory the four months in Languedoc.